


Why Wolves Howl

by hangthestars



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Cultural Appropriation, F/F, F/M, Gen, Shameless Use Of Romantic Tropes, Slow Build, Tiny Cakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4803701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangthestars/pseuds/hangthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(TRESPASSER SPOILERS)</p><p>“We need something big, something he can’t ignore. Something that makes the world unquestionably better.” She was making it up as she went along, but it felt smart. It felt <em>right</em>, and as she kept talking, she picked up energy, convincing even herself. “There are rebellions in Tevinter all the time; they have a resistance already, but they haven’t managed to win since Andraste’s Exalted March a thousand years ago. We need to find that rebellion waiting to happen and give it the help it’s never had. This isn’t about <em>me</em> saving the world again, it’s about showing Solas — showing everyone — that we aren’t bound by our past. That our people can do great things without gods or men to lift or lower us on their whims.”</p><p>“We are the Elvhen,” Merrill said, quiet and firm, and suddenly Eala felt a warmth for her. They were essentially strangers, but they were still Dalish, weren’t they? “Never again shall we submit.”</p><p>“Exactly."</p><p>[ Post-Trespasser. Solavellan. Ex-Inquisitor Lavellan gathers new and old allies to go about saving the world again -- and may end up saving more than that along the way. Character list and tags will be updated as the work is. ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They're Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> The (former) Inquisitor is my [Lavellan](http://hangthestars.tumblr.com/post/129131332012/inquisitor-eala-lavellan-post-hair-change-in) (sans vallaslin), Hawke is the default male mage in a Fenris romance, and the Warden is a Queen Cousland. The Inquisitor recruited the mages and wardens, and put Briala and Celene in charge (and executed Gaspard). Hawke sided with the mages. 
> 
> I think that's the important reference stuff for now.

The real downside of living in Kirkwall was that Eala Lavellan never did get to see if that key would control the docks. Unfair.

That nice Hightown mansion Varric had so unceremoniously given to Eala — _Comtesse_ Lavellan, as it were — had, in fact, been empty until their occupation because it had belonged first to a corrupt Tevinter Magister (so redundant), and then to his escaped slave, who had let bodies rot into the carpets for so long that no one wanted to spend the coin to actually replace them. Between Varric’s coffers and what had once been the Inquisition’s treasury, the mansion had been fixed up to her liking, just in time to act as a new home base for…

Well. She wasn’t sure what to call them now.

With the Inquisition disbanded, and given both the sheer size of Skyhold and newfound knowledge of its history with Solas, it didn’t feel comfortable to stay there. They couldn’t act as they once had, couldn’t afford to employ enough staff to keep the place from being unlivable, and to be perfectly honest, even if they could afford it, it wouldn’t matter. So many of their elven staff had left immediately after Solas’s disappearance that they didn’t have the body count to manage it.

Eala missed it fiercely at times, the way the air smelled in the cold mornings, the sound of soldiers practicing in the ring in the afternoons, the mountain peaks she could see perfectly from her balcony. But Skyhold was a home for revolutionaries, and Eala and what remained of her people were not revolutionaries anymore. They were…

She was figuring that out. Truly.

In the end, they had left with what could comfortably fit into a few carts, forming a small caravan that rode down to Guerrin and piled onto a boat all the way up to Kirkwall. “They” were the following: Scout Harding, not eager to go home and reluctant to work for anyone else; Leliana, along with the spy network she had supposedly “retired” from (and, unfortunately for everyone on that ship, her pet nugs); Dagna, who terrified everyone else she’d tried to get a job with; and a handful of carts and their favorite mounts, sending the rest back to Redcliffe with Dennet for lack of anywhere else to put them. They had the boat almost entirely to themselves, save for a man who was bound for Ostwick who had tried to buy Leliana’s Orlesian mare no less than four times during the voyage.

They made for a seemingly misfit little bunch, moving into the mansion like it was some hostel for the wayward. Eala had never realized how well Cullen and Josephine’s personalities had rounded them out, and she felt their absence the hardest the first time she realized she wanted their advice. They were days or weeks or months away by then, living much more peaceful lives, she was sure.

What she did get was from Leliana, and the advice that struck her hardest these days was this:

Most of espionage was just waiting.

It wasn’t fun.

 

* * *

 

 

In her dreams, Eala had her arm again. Her hand glowed, as if a reminder that even in her sleep, she was never truly freed of the Mark that had nearly killed her.

Tonight, she trekked through the snow, huddled against the harsh winds of an old memory. Even after the Anchor was gone, she dreamed so vividly; perhaps it was the Well of Sorrows, allowing her the lucidity she had only previously gained when Solas was with her and controlling their environment.

She remembered this night that she trudged through. The first night she’d laid eyes on Corypheus and practically spat in the face of his dragon. But had the snow been this high? This blinding? Eala could barely see past the snow biting at her cheeks, the Mark a cold comfort as she held it to her chest. It felt like she should remember which way to go, but just as she had on the _real_ night this had happened, the only guides she had were the…

Where was the cart she had stumbled upon? The fire that had beckoned her forward? Even the shadow in the distance she’d stumbled toward when she had finally fallen? The only guide she had now was the howling in the endless expanse of white, sweet as a siren’s call,

 _Wolves don’t howl to scare you_ , the Keeper had told her once. _They howl because they’re lonely._

She fell in the same place that she had in the real world, but she couldn’t hear Cassandra or Cullen rushing to her aid. Instead, when Eala looked up, a wolf nearly as white as the snow and eyes more red than her own seemed to be waiting for her, almost close enough to touch. Bracing herself on her hand, her fingers sinking through the snow without feeling the cold, Eala reached out. The space between them seemed to stretch out the further she reached, making her head swim.

“Solas, let me—”

 

* * *

 

And as usual, Eala woke up _angry_. She rubbed at the still-healing stump of her left arm and scowled. She probably scowled in her sleep. Her forehead was going to wrinkle horribly.

Dressing in the morning still took longer than usual, her remaining hand clumsy when she was irritated, but eventually she made her way down into the kitchen to at least have some tea with her annoyance. As per usual, Leliana was already awake, feeding her nugs and cooing over them like real children. She had one of them in her hands — Schmooples 3, if Eala remembered correctly — holding him in front of her and rubbing her nose to his snout.

“Look at you, precious. Are you hungry? Yes? Of course you are, you adorable little thing — Inquisitor! Good morning!” Leliana didn’t even feign embarrassment. She hugged her overly tolerant pet to her chest and only seemed delighted when he squeaked. “You’re just in time. The water should be boiling any second now.”

“It’s not Inquisitor anymore, remember?” Eala’s voice was a raspy, early-morning drawl. Even when she felt good, she never looked particularly healthy; her skin wasn’t attractively pale so much as it appeared too thin. Running the Inquisition had taken years off of her, at least, and left her seeming perpetually exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes more prominent thanks to the general washed out nature of her color. “You can just use my name. I promise I remember that it isn’t _Your Worship_.”

“’My Lady’, actually, Comtesse Lavellan. If you stay in this city too long, we’ll have to make sure you attend at least one party to keep your social standing.” At the noise Eala made in reply (an uncomfortable moan), Leliana added, “I’ll mention it again later.”

As if on cue, the kettle whistled, making Leliana put down the nug so she could start putting tea together. Eala felt bad about letting Leliana act as her housekeeper at times, putting together food if she was around or occasionally tidying if she wanted to do something with her hands while they were talking, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Leliana to _stop_. She was reluctant to admit how much losing her arm had set her back. If the people around her made it easier for her not to show how bothered she was, on purpose or not, she wouldn’t complain about it.

“I went to the market,” Leliana said conversationally, “and I found a little stall run by an elf who does trade with the passing Dalish clans. I know that Clan Lavellan mostly wandered the Free Marches, so I thought this particular tea may taste familiar to you.” She placed the teacup on the table and gently slid it in front of Eala. It _did_  smell familiar, grassy and earthy.

Eala took a sip before Leliana could offer her sugar and visibly relaxed. It was exactly what she needed that second, that taste of home. Leliana smiled secretly before taking a sip of her own tea — and then doing an admirable job not acting as if she hated it.

“So do we have anything? Anything at _all_?” she asked, with a hope in her tone that had been lessening with every week she asked that question.

Leliana took the seat across from her, casually adding sugar to her tea without looking down. “I’m afraid not. Solas may not have even left the Fade since last you saw him. However we find him, it won’t be through traditional means.”

“Plan B, then,” Eala said, and sighed. “Is everyone we need in town? We should get started as soon as possible.”

“The last arrived just last night. Shall I send out messengers now?”

“Yes. Please do.”

 

* * *

  
Two hours later, Eala’s mansion felt almost like being in Skyhold again. People were gathered around a map of Thedas at the dining room table, looking to her for direction. Having Leliana made it feel simpler, but she felt the empty areas where Josephine and Cullen would have stood, the uncomfortable air on her left where Cassandra had always taken up space during the war council.

Instead, she had Leliana on one side and Hawke on the other, in a better mood than she’d ever seen him. It surely had something to do with his recent reunion with Fenris, who sat contentedly across the table from them. They had clearly sated each other the night before, because there was no hint of the arguments she’d expected between him and Merrill, who had taken a spot next to Fenris as if oblivious to how little they’d always gotten along. It made Eala wonder how much of Varric’s version of their bickering in his novel was genuine and how much he’d put in for effect. Sera took up space next to Dagna, having come to Kirkwall weeks before and doing Red Jenny work when she wasn’t hanging around the mansion, and Scout Harding arrived last to the meeting, flushed from the effort of dashing from the fields outside the city itself all the way to Hightown.

Eala had as many familiar faces as she could afford to rely on now. The others needed their freedom, or would be too easy for Solas to track if they all gathered. She looked around the table and thought to herself:

_This is the start of something. Life has officially moved on._

For a moment, she was unbearably homesick for Skyhold.

“You all know why you’re here. The Dread Wolf is hellbent on destroying the world, but he doesn’t have enough power. With his foci destroyed, he’s forced to look for an alternative. We should have the next few years to stop him, longer if we manage to delay him, but he’s impossible to find unless he _wants_ to be found. So we need to try something else.” Eala took a deep breath and leaned on the table, looming over the map and casting a shadow over Ferelden. “I _know_ Solas. If we prove him wrong and give him a new reason to stop, then he has to stop. We need to make a world worth preserving.”

“But isn’t it already worth preserving?” Merrill asked, pointed without sounding rude. “He saved it himself.”

“He saved it so he could destroy it on his own terms. Think of what he sees, even now: the Dalish wander without knowing our own history, the elves are subjugated in Halamshiral and enslaved in Tevinter. We need something we can shove right into his face that forced him to pause and _listen_.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Fenris asked.

“Then…” Eala took in a deep breath. “Then I’ll kill him. Solas is a good man, but he’s in shock. He’s in mourning. He may not be a true god, but he thinks on a god’s scale and solves his problems with a god’s solutions. We have to match his intensity if we get through to him.”

Fenris frowned, his brows knitting underneath his messy hair. “Are you not biased? If he were not your lover, would you be trying so hard?”

Eala shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ , it matters!” Fenris’s fist clenched, and he was clearly resisting the urge to slam it down onto the table. “You’re asking us to follow you. This isn’t the Inquisition, Lady Lavellan, we are not your blind servants willing to march into the fire on the off chance that it won’t burn. We’ll need a more compelling reason not to kill him than your feelings.”

Eala waited a couple of long seconds for some defense — but none came. Those who weren’t nodding in agreement were quiet, and Hawke just wouldn’t look at her. So she sighed, and said, “He’s the last ancient elf alive, that we know of. Killing Solas may very well complete a thousand years of effective genocide. Think of him as a relic not to be broken, in that case. If we can talk him down, he’ll be the greatest resource on our history that the elves have ever had access to. Is that better?”

“Mm.” Fenris sat back, still tense. “We shall see.”

“That’s all well and good,” Sera said, bursting into the conversation. “But Solas is a stubborn arsehole. What’s your big plan to turn him around? ‘Cause he’s never come around before, why d’you think he’ll come around _now_?”

At that, Eala smiled, resettling as if she needed to brace herself against the reaction. “I’m glad you asked. We’re going to Tevinter. We’re going to free the slaves.”

There was a silence around the table, until Sera broke it with a blunt, “You’re fucking nutters, you know that?”

“I’m _serious_. We need something big, something he can’t ignore. Something that makes the world unquestionably better.” She was making it up as she went along, but it felt smart. It felt _right_ , and as she kept talking, she picked up energy, convincing even herself. “There are rebellions in Tevinter all the time; they have a resistance already, but they haven’t managed to win since Andraste’s Exalted March a thousand years ago. We need to find that rebellion waiting to happen and give it the help it’s never had. This isn’t about _me_  saving the world again, it’s about showing Solas — showing everyone — that we aren’t bound by our past. That our people can do great things without gods or men to lift or lower us on their whims.”

“We are the Elvhen,” Merrill said, quiet and firm, and suddenly Eala felt a warmth for her. They were essentially strangers, but they were still Dalish, weren’t they? “Never again shall we submit.”

“Exactly.”

Sera leaned forward and planted her elbows on the table, bracing her body as if she could already feels herself being tugged away on some adventure she never asked for. “Ugh, fine. That’s stupid, but fine. What are we going to call this bad idea you’re having? ‘Cause apparently I’m stupid enough to follow you everywhere. This thing needs a name, can’t call it ‘ _Inquisition_ ’ anymore, can we?”

“We’re after Fen’Harel,” Hawke added. “We could call it the wolf hunt. That’ll get his attention.”

Eala thought it over, but ultimately shook her head. “No. We’re not hunting him, we’re trying to save him. Reason with him.”

Merrill perked up, gesturing to get Eala’s attention. “I remember there was a night our clan made camp near a wolf’s den. The howling kept me up, and I thought — I was convinced — that they would come for us in the night and eat us, and the Keeper said—”

“They don’t howl to scare you,” Eala continued, a smile spreading across her mouth.

“They howl because they’re looking for their family,” Merrill finished, mirroring her smile.

“So we’re not a hunting party. We’re his pack. And if we howl loud enough, Solas will come home.”

“So.” Sera stood, reaching across the table for an approving handshake that Eala gladly took. “Let’s make some friggin’ noise!”


	2. Falling Hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild-but-uncomfortable nudity toward the end.

Falling down _hurt_.

Speeches were all well and good, but they couldn’t just set off for Tevinter, swords swinging. There was ground to lay, more people to contact. Leliana had gone so far as to wheedle an invitation to a damn party out of Varric so her reputation wouldn’t slip (and had told her that, no, she wasn’t allowed to hire someone else to attend for her).

She couldn’t stand to wait around for messages to come and go, so she decided to be productive, which was how she’d landed flat on her back with Kirkwall’s Guard-Captain standing over her.

“If you need to rest, we can take a break.” Aveline Vallen nudged Eala carefully with a foot to make sure she was still conscious.

With a groan, Eala opened her eyes and pushed herself up. “No. No, I don’t need a break. I want to go again.” She groped around the ground for her sword until she could wrap her hand around the hilt. Using the weapon to hold her weight, she dragged herself back up, swaying just a little before she regained her proper balance.

Eala didn’t like this sword. It was a gift from Harding, who’d traded with a passing Dalish clan after seeing the halla engraving in the hilt. It would be wonderful if it belonged to anyone else, but for Eala, it was a reminder of what she could no longer do; it was smaller and lighter than the two-handed axes and hammers she was accustomed to. It pained her to admit that she didn’t know how to properly use it, and every time she swayed or fell because she still leaned back too far to compensate for weight that wasn’t there or couldn’t catch herself with the arm she no longer had, she felt young and stupid. She would be forty in a few short years, and here she was back to being knocked into the dirt like a child.

“You’ve been here for a few hours now, Messere. You’re out of practice. It may be best for you to pause for the day.” Aveline was patient with her, though maybe it was easy to be patient when she wasn’t the one being knocked down over and over. “Perhaps you could even put off lessons until your arm is fully healed.”

“And if I’m attacked before then? I won’t be helpless.” Eala shifted into a balanced stance and raised her sword at the ready. “I can handle it.”

They had taken over the practice yard some time after the morning rotation of guards had already gone, and had been there so long that the shifts were changing. Guards were trickling in to work out before they headed home, but the Captain whacking around the former Inquisitor was infinitely more interesting than practice dummies.

This time there was an audience when Aveline came after her again. Eala blocked a slash, deflected a stab, and did an admirable job of defending herself. It was attacking that got her; she lunged, and missed, struck again and missed, and in her third attack, the sword skittered off Aveline’s armor and set her off-balance. Eala automatically tried to compensate with her left arm (which she could swear, Creators just for a second, she could feel it, she could feel the air around it and the weight of it) and pitched herself to the ground, landing on the side of her that was still healing.

She hadn’t been so sloppy an hour ago. _Maybe Aveline is right_ , Eala thought to herself, listening to the badly muffled laughter of the guards. _I'_ _m just being a fool_. Her arm ached horribly; she wiped away shameful tears just as they came to her eyes, praying nobody would notice.

“Get back to your jobs,” she could hear Aveline saying. “Go. It’s rude to stare.” Eala took the hand that Aveline offered to help pull her back to her feet, and she looked away when the Captain picked up her sword and handed it back to her.

Eala muttered a thank you before sheathing the weapon, admitting defeat. She tried to brush the dirt off of her clothes while the guards dispersed, then switched to dragging her fingers through her hair. The back of her head was probably gritty and brown. Gross.

“We can try again later.” Aveline looked sympathetic enough that Eala wished she’d just be angry or disappointment. Any emotion with a bit of an edge would be easier to look at. “Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

“I can’t. I have some stupid party I have to study for. The host is Orlesian.” The folded up left sleeve of her shirt was loosening. Eala fussed with it, undoing the clip and holding it in her mouth while she readjusted the fabric. “Leliana thinks I need to be a good noble,” she continued, mumbling around the clip.

“Ah. My sympathies. I went to a few of those when I was first promoted; I don’t miss them.” Deliberately looking away from Eala’s fumbling, she added, “Are you taking a date?”

“Don’t have anyone I’d take.” Clipping her sleeve back up, Eala’s mouth was finally free when she asked, “Why?”

“They’re more bearable if you don’t go alone.” Aveline motioned for Eala to follow her out of the practice yard. “I should get back to work, but I’ll walk you to the front.”

Eala found herself unusually eager to tuck herself behind someone else, letting the Guard Captain make the path ahead. She’d always been so used to being stared at. Now she felt reset, vulnerable and almost skinless. Anyone who brushed against her now could make her bleed.

 

* * *

 

 

She meant to go home and ended up wandering. It was a stupid thing to do, surely, when it was so difficult for her to defend herself. The reconstruction efforts were well underway in Kirkwall, and Varric’s connections with the crime syndicates tended to keep his closest friends safe, but there were gangs that didn’t care what the Viscount wanted.

Eala took unfamiliar twists and turns in the streets. Even the cleaner parts of the city had a way of feeling dank and unwelcoming the closer she got to Darktown. She had visited before as Inquisitor, but only to go to the Black Emporium for badly needed materials or weapons; there had never been a chance to really experience the city itself, especially not when it had been so broken down, so burnt. There was evidence of the start of the war everywhere, the damage marring the parts that had been fixed.

In Darktown, she was nobody and nameless. The people here seemed aggressively not to care what happened in Hightown, let alone the rest of the world. Still dirty from training with Aveline, Eala almost looked like she belonged there, but she emptied her purse of coins anyway: a silver for a beggar here, a sovereign for a street-walker there. She bought useless bits of scrap sold off blankets just to get rid of the money, leaving her with pockets full of rusted trinkets and wilted elfroot.

She found the only space that wasn’t a home for a beggar or a criminal, drawn in by a lit lantern in a shadowed corner. It gave the impression that whatever was beyond the doors was warm and welcoming, so when she opened the door she was shocked to find it empty of people.

Instead, it was full to the brim with tokens. Scraps of paper, bouquets of flowers long dead, presents for someone who would never use them. Someone must have been coming in daily to maintain the candles strewn across the table that served as the centerpiece for the room. Curious, Eala chose a wide candle that had barely been burned, using its light to pick her way around the windowless room. She passed over a weary-looking teddy bear, a dead bouquet of daisies, and a series of letters so crumpled and faded they were unreadable in the dim light. There was one letter, however, that caught her eye enough that she had to put down her candle so she could pick it up, unfolding it by taking one corner in her mouth and tugging at it with her hand.

The writing was in scratchy letters, the ink running in spots from tear stains.

 

> _Anders -_
> 
> _I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long. I’ve been away. Trying to fix my mistakes again. I left Fenris in the middle of the night like a coward to pursue Corypheus; he’s only just barely forgiven me. I’m sure you’re not surprised._
> 
> _I fell into the Fade, and I have to say, I never thought I could hate spiders more than I already do. We managed to stop the fear demon that was commanding the Grey Wardens, but at the cost of Stroud. I should have stayed. I owe him Carver’s life and the Wardens desperately need him. It was selfish of me to let him go, but_
> 
> _Maker, Anders, I’m afraid to die._
> 
> _I miss you._
> 
> _HAWKE_

 

  
It felt too intimate to read, but the note was so short that by the time Eala realized she shouldn’t be seeing it, it was over.

Before she could put the paper down, the door creaked open again — and Merrill, of all people, stepped through it, a bouquet of daisies in one arm and a sack hanging from a string around her other one. “Oh! Hello. I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

Eala tucked the paper behind her back, shoving it into her waistband as if she was scratching an itch. “I was just leaving.”

“You don’t have to. I came to change the candles. You can stay. I’d like it if you stayed. Sometimes being here alone is too much.” Merrill didn’t move around a room so much as flutter, her bare feet light on the ground.

“As long as you don’t mind it. Here, let me…” Eala reached for her candle again and followed Merrill about, lighting her way.

The first thing she did was replace the dead bouquet closest to Eala with the fresh flowers she’d brought, setting it aside and out of the way. Next she carefully blew out all the candles that were burning down to the quick, scooting them to one edge of the table to cool. She opened her sack and produced a number of new candles, all in various states of life; only one was brand new (a fat white candle that looked as if it had been stolen from the Chantry), but the others must have been squirreled away from various sources, and Eala recognized one or two as having been sold off of some of the beggars’ blankets. Merrill lit each new candle with a touch of her finger to the wicks.

“Are you the only one who tends the candles? They don’t burn that slowly.”

“Oh. No, a lot of people come through here,” Merrill answered distractedly, lighting a tall blue candle. “I only started when I came back. I thought it would be nice.”

“Were you… I’m sorry, I thought you and Anders weren’t friends,” Eala said carefully.

“No, but…” Merrill trailed off, sadly watching the thick Chantry candle burn and tracing the edge with her finger. “He was a kind man, down deep. He shouldn’t have had to die like he did. It still bothers Hawke, I know.”

Eala swallowed. “I can imagine. Can I ask how he died? Varric didn’t put it in the book.” Out of respect, she realized now.

“Justice was too overwhelming for him. He asked Hawke to help him, and Hawke did.” Merrill fidgeted and scratched the back of her neck. “I don’t know how much more I should say.”

“No, please don’t. It’s fine.” Eala stared down at the flame of her candle, the wax welling up and dripping over one side. “I just realized I don’t know how to get back home. Will you walk back with me?”

Perking up at the prospect of helping (or maybe just changing the subject), Merrill bunched up her bag. “I was about to go to Hawke’s. Let’s go, I’ll show you a shortcut. I hope I remember it right. Otherwise we’ll be breaking into someone’s basement. I might be helping you turn into a burglar.”

 

* * *

 

 

Merrill picked the wrong basement.

“I’m so sorry, I was so sure I had the right door, I didn’t mean to almost get you arrested—”

“Merrill, it’s _fine_.” Eala wasn’t hiding her laughter. It was hardly the first time she’d been nearly arrested, but by far the funniest. The servants of the house they’d accidentally tried to break into hadn’t known what to do with them, and had the mistress of the manor not come stomping down to tell her “lazy elves!” to get to work, they probably would have walked away unscathed. As it was, only Merrill’s reputation with the Champion had saved them. “It really is, there’s no harm done.”

“I won’t do it again,” Merrill promised, gesturing emphatically.

“I believe you.” Eala walked close enough to bump Merrill with her shoulder. They were taking the long way back to Hightown and had dashed off to the Lowtown bazaar after their near miss. The marketplace was buzzing with activity, the air finally cooling after the high noon heat and a breeze coming off the ocean. Merrill was vaguely recognizable, but her vallaslin was light enough that to the casual citizen, they were just a pair of unimportant elves wandering through the stands.

“Merrill, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes? Yes, please do. Is it about breaking into houses? Because—”

“No, it’s not about breaking into houses,” Eala assured her. “I’ve been wondering: do you still have your mirror? I can never be sure what in Varric’s book is true and what isn’t.”

“The eluvian? No.” Merrill paused and made a face. “Yes? But also no. Yes and no.” At Eala’s confused look, Merrill continued, “I had it, and it wasn’t working. Then it _was_ working, and I lost it.”

It took a couple seconds for Eala to connect the dots, but when she did, she guessed, “Did someone take it? From the other side? Solas has done that before.”

“Oh! Oh yes he did. I met him. I forgot to mention.” Though she said it as if she’d been reluctant to, rather than just forgot.

“You spoke to Solas?” It was loud enough to draw some attention, and Eala immediately quieted. Then she took Merrill’s hand and pulled her into an alleyway, lowering her voice before asking, “When did this happen? Was I in the city? What did he say?”

“No — and earlier — and —” Merrill waved her hands again as if to brush away all her words so she could start over. “It was after I got Varric’s letter, before I came back to Kirkwall. He came through the mirror to talk to me.”

Eala’s grip on Merrill’s hand tightened so much to be painful before she pulled away. “What did he say to you? Did he tell you anything?”

“He told me everything.” Merrill kneaded her palm with her other hand, avoiding eye contact. “What he wants to do for the People, tearing down the Fade. He told me about the vallaslin and offered to take it away — I said no, I like my face. Everything Varric said he would tell me — or everything you told Varric to tell me that Solas might say.”

An unexpected jealousy twisted her stomach, and was quickly replaced by embarrassment. She knew from her travels through the other eluvians that removing the vallaslin hadn’t been _special_ between them. It was what Solas would try to do for anyone who knew the truth. “Did you believe him…?”

“Yes. Of course. I find that not believing not-gods when they’re right in front of you isn’t very wise. He seemed very heartfelt, and very sad.”

Eala almost took Merrill’s shoulder, meaning to shake her, but pulled her hand back at the last second. “Merrill. Please tell me you didn’t agree to help him.”

Merrill just shook her head, eyes cast down. A few long, uncomfortable moments passed before Eala sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m speaking down to you. That’s beneath me, and it’s… unworthy.”

“It’s all right.” Merrill’s forgiveness was genuine, even if it was almost too fast. “I understand. He was your lover. This must be difficult for you, especially after he took…” She stopped herself, closing her lips tight.

“Yeah.” Running a hand over her face, Eala turned away, motioning for them to go back to the street. She felt like she was unfairly cornering Merrill in the alleyway. It was easier once they were back out in open air, if more somber.

They walked in silence for a while, Merrill leading the way through the marketplace until the stalls started disappearing and they moved into Hightown.

Eventually, Merrill broke through it, her voice cheerful when she said, “You look very pretty without vallaslin, by the way. I’m sure you looked pretty when you had it, but you still have a very nice face. Sometimes people look a little awkward before they get their tattoos, you know?”

“Thank you?” It was unexpected enough that Eala didn’t immediately know how to react. She touched her own cheek, running her fingers over where her tattoo used to be. “I feel like I’m still getting used to it. You said Solas offered to remove yours, didn’t you? And you said no?” That question felt stupid even as it came out. Of course Merrill had said no, she still had her tattoos.

“It’s my face.” Merrill nodded, far more certain than Eala had been. “And it’s been a thousand years, hasn’t it? Things change.”

“But doesn’t it bother you knowing the gods weren’t real gods? Or that you’re honoring someone who nearly destroyed the world?” It wasn’t aggressive or offended. Eala still wasn’t sure how to feel about it, and was genuinely curious instead.

“It does, but they’re gone. They can’t see my face.” Merrill idly touched a mark on her cheek. “I don’t know. But I like my face. Our vallaslin means more than just the name of a long-gone god. I don’t know if that means less than what happened a thousand years ago.”

“Mm.”

Another silence before Merrill asked, “Do you think less of me now?”

“No.” Eala said it without thinking. “I wish I’d thought of that. I feel like I said yes too quickly.”

“You were in love,” Merrill said, more gently than Eala felt she deserved. “He’s very convincing. He truly believes himself. In your position, I don’t know if I’d have done anything different.”

Mercifully, the rest of the walk was quiet. They reached Hawke’s mansion first and Merrill stopped, fidgeting in place when Eala stopped as well. The air between them was more somber than uncomfortable; Merrill looked like she couldn’t stand such sour notes, but didn’t know what other tune to play to fix them.

“We’re all getting together for Wicked Grace. You should come in. Hawke is much funnier than I am, and you look like you could use a laugh.”

“I think I need some time alone, actually,” Eala said apologetically. “But thank you for talking about this with me. I don’t know anyone else who would understand.”

“Anytime. You can come talk to me anytime. I still have my place in the Alienage; you should visit.” Scratching the back of her head, she added, “No, maybe don’t, it’s not as nice as Hightown. I’ll visit you? No, that’s rude, I shouldn’t invite myself—”

“Visit whenever you want,” Eala interrupted. “My house is too big. _Please_ come over whenever you feel like it.”

“I will. Yes. I’ll bring a housewarming gift next time.” Merrill nodded, overly serious.

“I would love that.” Eala gestured awkwardly, nearly hugging but deciding not to. Hugs were awkward now, and she and Merrill still barely knew each other. “I’d like to ask you one last thing, though. I have to go to some party tomorrow night and I don’t have a date. Will you come with me? Just as a friend. I just need someone there I’ll know. The host is Orlesian, it will probably be horrible. I’ll understand if you say no.”

Merrill’s face lit up in surprise. “I’ve _never_ been to a fancy Orlesian party. I don’t have a dress! I’ll get a dress. I would love to go, yes!”

Eala let out a relieved breath, finally smiling. “I have dresses, you can borrow one of mine. Please don’t spend _any_ money. Just come by tomorrow morning?”

“Yes! I will! And I’ll bring a gift!”

 

* * *

 

  
Even in her dreams, Eala could smell the grass.

Her eyes were nearly closed, squinting against the bright sun that streamed through the trees in the Emerald Graves. All she could see was the lush green of the forest and the sight of Solas shifting just at the edge of her vision. In this memory, they were mostly naked in the grass, having sneaked away from camp to make love in the forest.

Solas’s fingertips traced over her vallaslin, traveling along the lines of the deep scars that ran underneath the ink on her cheek and down her chin. She tried to kiss his hand, but by then he’d stopped.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. It was wrong, it wasn’t how the memory was supposed to go, and Eala pushed herself up so she could look around. The vibrant colors of the Fade were too aggressive for comfort, and without Solas there with her, her nakedness was chilling. Eala frantically tugged her jacket over her bare breasts and groped in the grass for her trousers, dragging them into her lap. Her left hand was clumsy, crackling and tingling as if it was asleep, making the edges of her clothes slip from her fingers.

“Solas?” She searched the trees, but found no trace of the white wolf or his red eyes. She didn’t know if that was better or worse.

 

  
Eala woke with tears in her eyes, grabbing at her blanket so she could drag it up to her chin. Crying in heavy, overwhelming sobs that forced themselves out of her body, Eala had to sit up to keep from choking, somewhere between agony and catharsis.

Falling hurt.


	3. What Are You Wearing? Part One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexually explicit language, shameless use of the “She Cleans Up Nice” trope, elf-based parallels about racism and cultural appropriation, and gratuitous descriptions of clothes and other things in the first half.
> 
> There’s also an [official timeline](http://hangthestars.tumblr.com/post/129270014257/da-timeline-reference-list) now! It’s not very detailed just this second because the fic is still in the early stages, but it has some exact years and months for game events, seasons, and birthdays for Eala, Hawke and the Warden, as well as some reference links for travel times around Thedas that you might like to have for totally unrelated reasons. Y’all are, of course, more than welcome to follow me; if you want to follow updates on the fic, I’m chatty and annoying when I’m writing.
> 
> Despite how obnoxiously LONG this chapter is, it’s only a part one. Part two should come out sooner rather than later, it was just way too much to shove at you all at once.

“What are you wearing?”

“White silk and dark red vestment cotton, tall brown boots and white gloves. Dark red leggings. No skirt, but the coat flairs out at below the waist so I can still properly curtsy to the nobles, apparently.”

“I guess that will do.” Dorian sighed. Even if she could only hear his voice through the sending crystal, Eala could imagine the dramatic, reluctantly disapproving look on his face, as if disappointed that she hadn’t manifested more fashionable clothes out of nowhere. He was itching to dress her himself, but separated by countries, he would just have to tut and tsk at Leliana’s choices instead. “What about jewelry? What’s around your neck.”

“You.” Eala looked down, turning the sending crystal over. It looked like an oversized pendant, clipping closed when it wasn’t in use and glowing lightly around the edges of the cover when Dorian was calling for her. Its gold chain mingled with the simple black cords that held the blackened jawbone that Solas had left behind.

“Tell me you aren’t wearing that old bone, too. I know it’s important, but you can’t wear that with _silk_.”

“I’ll take it off before I leave,” she promised.

“No, you won’t. Just keep it under your ruffles. The even Kirkwall nobles will pick at it. Ineffectively, but even so. —I’m _talking_ , Bull, stop that.”

Eala smiled and raised her voice to say, “Hello, Bull.”

“Hey, boss!” Bull’s deep, familiar chuckle warmed her heart, even knowing that he was just trying to get Dorian to put the crystal down. Dorian had called on her when he’d first arrives at the outskirts of Tevinter, sharing updates (saucy and otherwise) when he thought that Bull was too asleep to hear him. They would have to split up soon so Dorian could go back to Minrathous alone. “Dorian says you’re going to a _soiree_.”

“I’m going into a hellhole,” she said flatly, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “Leliana didn’t even tell me she’d replied to the invitation until two days ago so I wouldn’t have time to run off. It’s just going to be a whole night of useless schmoozing to ‘keep my reputation’ in Kirkwall.”

“Tell me you’re at least bringing someone to spice up the party.”

Eala propped her leg up on the bed so she could set her chin on it, keeping the crystal in her hand. With her eyes closed she could imagine they were sitting right next to her. “I don’t know about _spicy_ , but she’ll make it interesting. She’s trying on dresses right now; Leliana spent way too much of my money on gowns I won’t wear, so I’m giving one to Merrill to wear. Apparently I’m not allowed to see it until she’s ready. —One of Varric’s friends, you remember the Dalish girl from Tale of the Champion?”

“Ooh. An elf girl.” Dorian’s smile was in his voice. “Finally going back to your roots, are you?”

“It’s not like that. We’re friendly and I can talk to her. She’s doing me a favor.”

“Maybe you should do her a favor back, if you know what I mean,” Bull said lasciviously. Then, just in case she didn’t get it, “I’m talking about oral sex, Boss.”

Eala rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I picked up on that,” she said mildly. There was a knock at the door that grabbed her attention, and she pointedly added, “I’m hanging up on you now. Have good sex.” (Bull managed a quick, “We will!” before she snapped the pendant shut.)

As she slipped the crystal underneath her clothes, Merrill lightly pushed the door open and let herself into the room. “I’m not interrupting, am I? I can wait out here.”

“No, they went off to f…” Eala trailed off. Merrill was in a deep emerald green dress that had inexplicably been in her closet. (How much of her money had Leliana spent on something she’d never wear?) Knowing Leliana, it was half a step ahead of anything the Kirkwall nobility was wearing this season; Orlais thought of the Free Marches as quaint and simple, and was generally reluctant to share their fashions until they were already out of style. It suited them to think of the Marchers crawling after them and begging for scraps.

Merrill was not crawling. The base of the asymmetrical bodice was such a light blue it was almost white, broken up with a deep green embroidery that shaped abstract trees down her torso before giving way to nearly translucent layers of the skirt, draped over one another to give the illusion of a garden. The top was the same green as the bodice, and the layers beneath it were winding with colors — pale pinks and blues and hints of gentle purples —, the hem just above the ankles to show off Merrill’s leggings, her bare toes and bare ankles. The dress itself had no sleeves (something that Eala noted that prompted her to run her hand over what remained of her left arm, grateful she hadn’t even tried the thing on), but Merrill wore lacy detached sleeves instead, fingerless and leaving her long hands exposed. Whoever Leliana had commissioned to make this dress, she’d taken pains to make sure it was recognizable as elven.

“I… would look terrible in that,” Eala said uselessly. “I’m glad it’s yours now.”

“What? No, I couldn’t possibly keep it, it’s so expensive!” Merrill touched the skirt as if it would rip if she brushed it too hard. “I’ve never worn anything this delicate in my life. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“ _I_ don’t know what to do with it. I’ll never wear it. If you don’t use it again, maybe… keep it for posterity. Or give it away to someone else who will want it. Make someone else happy with it.” Eala’s fingers found the jawbone hanging around her neck, gripping it like a security blanket. The blunted teeth dug into her skin. “You look _wonderful,_ Merrill.”

“Thank you.” Merrill nodded, considered it, and then tried to curtsy.

“ _Please_ do not do that in front of the Comtesse du Laurent.” Leliana shooed Merrill inside of the room, her presence effortlessly filling the space. “That is a completely inappropriate curtsy for a woman of her rank. You don’t have the Inquisition or the end of the world hanging over everyone at this party; you actually do have to know how to handle yourselves without me or Josie whispering in your ears. I wish you had studied more in the last two years, My Lady.” She handed scrolls to Eala and to Merrill with purpose. “You have until the party to brush up on these.”

Eala scrunched her nose before she even opened it, and the scroll was exactly what she expected: a list of names of party guests (copied from a stolen guest list?), with their titles, accomplishments and quirks. This one didn’t like orange, that one was a chicken-breeding enthusiastic, this other one thought most elves couldn’t understand the common tongue and spoke loudly because of it. There was already a headache forming right in the middle of her forehead.

 _Ugh_.

 

* * *

 

  
Eala suspected that Leliana’s torturous studying was actually a ploy to make her _want_ to go to the damn party, if only to get away.

Head swimming with information she never wanted to know, Eala was relieved when Leliana announced that they were as ready as they’d ever be. When they got up to leave, however, she stopped them. “Wait. One last thing.”

“Please tell me it’s not about the Comtesse’s personal hygiene,” Eala begged.

“No, it isn’t. I got you a gift. One moment.” Leliana left the bedroom and returned a moment later with a polished wooden box. “When you were with the Inquisition, not wearing masks in Orlais was a statement. But we are not the Inquisition, and our statements must be different now, no? I put in the order for these when we left for Kirkwall.”

Resting in a bed of velvet were a pair of expertly crafted masks, fashioned to imitate the face of a halla, antlers winding back off the sides. The more ornate one was a pristine white, embroidered with delicate lines of gold that wound patterns across the face, the horns a soft gold and decorated with shards of rubies. The simpler mask was still white and bordered with strands of silver instead, with silvery gray horns and rings of tiny emeralds circling the base of them where they met the mask itself.

“Leliana…” Eala came close enough to touch the box, gently pushing her hand against the velvet so she could scoop up the mask with the gold horns. It was heavier and softer than she’d expected. “You know they won’t get the _right_ statement. Humans think the halla are just fancy-looking livestock.”

“So teach them. Or don’t. Knowing when to give information is as much part of The Game as withholding it, and you have more experience in real Orlesian courts than most people in Kirkwall.” Leliana actually sounded a little jealous that she wasn’t coming along.

“Do I need two masks? I only have one face,” Eala said flatly.

“The other is for potential suitors who may accompany you to events. —Merrill, for instance. If you could come try this on, Merrill, I would appreciate it. We’ll pick a different dress if it clashes.”

Leliana approached her before Merrill could get up from her seat, putting aside the box so she could use both hands to affix the mask on her face.

“Oh. It’s heavy.” Merrill poked at the mask’s nose. “Won’t it fall down?”

“Not if it’s tied correctly.” Leliana punctuated her statement with the knot as she tied it. “In Orlais, everyone wears masks. They believe that the only people who should ever see their true faces are their dearest friends and family. Taking off a mask among the Orlesian elite is a sign of trust — or an intimidating power play. Or, sometimes, stupidity. Just to be safe, keep your mask on until the party is over.”

She pulled back and studied Merrill’s face, an approving smile pulling at her mouth. “ _Perfect_. With your vallaslin, the effect is stunning. …Hm.” Leliana took one more glance at Merrill, then a glance at Eala. “I have a red face paint. It’s very popular in Val Royeaux right now — because of you, in fact, Inquisitor. Your first portrait is circulating among the courts now and people are very in love with your vallaslin.” Her voice was mild, reluctant to endorse what she was talking about but not outright condemning.

Eala winced, then frowned. “So, what, Orlesians are painting their faces like my tattoos? When I don’t even have them anymore?”

“Fashion,” Leliana replied flatly. “You’ll likely see some of it from underneath people’s masks tonight. Painting the neck is popular, since masks cover most of the face.”

Merrill bristled, self-consciously touching the lines of ink on her chin. “I’ve never been to Orlais, but now it sounds _dreadful_. Are you sure you want to go to this party, Eala? I don’t think this is something I want to see.”

Eala was quiet, staring down at the mask in her hand. They didn’t understand the point of the vallaslin, and they certainly wouldn’t understand that a halla — a _real_ halla — would be more likely to wreck them than any of the carnivorous animals that nobles hunted for fun. It would be easier just not to show up, but if she did that now, it wouldn’t be a protest of anything. It would just be the ex-Inquisitor dropping her responsibilities because she wasn’t as powerful anymore.

“If I don’t go, people will just use it against me,” she said finally. “You don’t have to come with me if you’d rather not.”

Merrill fidgeted. “I don’t like the idea of you being there alone. I’ll go, but if they’re horrible to you, I’ll find a reason to make us leave early.”

“That’s the best I can ask for. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to send a message to some Friends before we go. And then I’ll need your help with something.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The Comtesse Eala First-Thaw Lavellan, honored warrior of the Avvar and former leader of the Inquisition, and her companion, Merrill of the Sabrae Dalish clan.”

With Merrill on her arm, Eala stepped through the ornate wooden doors and into the Comtesse du Laurent’s ballroom. The ornate mask hid her automatic disdain at all the pomp and flourishes of being important at a party as the steward announced them. She glanced over the crowd of guests as they made their way into the party to greet the hostess, noting the brightly colored lines of paint that decorated their chins and throats, and a hatred rolled in her stomach.

She just had to survive an hour or two. Just that long.

It had taken Merrill half an hour to carefully replicate Eala’s old vallaslin onto her face in paint. They were fashionably late because of it, and the paint itself would hold until the end of the night if she didn’t panic and sweat it off early, but it just made the night that much better. Much of the “tattoo” was covered by her mask, but she’d insisted on having it right, even the parts no one would see.

Halfway to the hostess, Merrill leaned in to whisper, “What’s that smell?”

“Cheese and self-righteousness. Probably.”

Merrill snorted.

Upon reaching the Comtesse, Eala and Merrill made their best attempts at their curtsies (or Merrill did, maybe; Eala knew for sure that she stayed almost an inch above where she was supposed to be, her arm throwing off her balance, you know), and Eala thanked the Comtesse for the invitation. And then the Comtesse replied, “Of _course_ , Lady Lavellan, I wouldn’t _dream_ of hosting a gathering without inviting the woman who saved Thedas from such a horrible fate. I’m so glad you could come.”

The thing that struck Eala wasn’t the woman’s outfit (a mish-mash of peacock-inspired colors, with the layered skirt to imitate its tail feathers), her lavish peacock mask or the hideous and overly complicated three-colored fake vallaslin paint on her chin and throat. No, it was her voice, which was immediately familiar. It would have sounded moreso if the Comtesse was shrieking at her servants, surely.

Eala and Merrill had broken into this very mansion’s basement the day before. Eala’s returned smile was genuine for all the wrong reasons.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she lied easily, smiling with her teeth. “You have such a lovely home, my lady. It looks even more beautiful from the inside.”

“You are wearing a _beautiful_ dress.” Merrill’s accent picked its way around the word _beautiful_ , drawing it out so it had four syllables instead of three, and so soaked in sarcasm that it looped back around into sounding genuine. “And such lovely shoes!”

“Thank you, my dear, your shoes are…” The Comtesse glanced down at Merrill’s feet and trailed off. Thanks to her mask, her expression was impassive, but the silence was too long to be completely polite. “That’s a unique look. Perhaps you’ll start a trend.”

Determined to keep her smile to the point of being unnerving, Eala replied, “It seems we already have. Is the Orlesian court finally warming to the Dalish? You’re wearing quite an interesting take on vallaslin. I’ve never seen it in more than one color before.” The white of her teeth and skin contrasted sharply with the natural-looking pink of her lipstick and the severe red of her face paint, the lines reaching for her mouth, the line trailing down from her lips.

The Comtesse just barely shifted her weight, running her hand down over her layered skirt. She wasn’t much older than Eala herself, any wrinkles or signs of aging covered with her mask or her makeup, hands and arms covered with silky gloves. After years coming in and out of Orlais and its courts, Eala could look at her and tell that Val Royeaux would eat her alive. She may very well have been an impressive player of the Game in Kirkwall, but only because other nobles in the city weren’t always aware of the rules.

Eala almost felt bad. She _did_ feel predatory, and it settled better with her than she would care to admit.

“I hired a girl who trained in Halamshiral to apply it,” the Comtesse said proudly, gesturing femininely to her throat. “I’m surprised yours is so simple, Lady Lavellan. I would have thought a Dalish elf would have more creative ideas. Not that I disapprove, of course, classic is _always_ fashionable.”

“I always find that what’s real weathers trends and times more than what isn’t. In fact, it’s fortunate that my own tattoos were the court’s inspiration; if I didn’t know its root, I may very well be offended. As it is, I know you’re only _admiring_ the Dalish. Considering the tension between our peoples, it’s a surprising olive branch to see Orlesian nobles finally appreciating our culture.” Eala could feel the lineup of nobles waiting to greet the Comtesse getting longer and more restless. Rather than allow a silence or a reply, she added, “But your other guests are waiting, and Merrill and I really should be enjoying this wonderful party you’ve put on. We’ll have to catch up more later.”

When they were safely away, Eala finally let herself breathe. An elven servant approached them with a tray of glasses, handing over a pair of flutes full of a tart red juice.

“This is much more fun than I expected,” Merrill admitted, holding her glass with a secure grip that would make Leliana cry. “Is this what Orlesians do all day? Insult each other to their faces?”

“Sometimes they use bards to kill each other,” Eala said mildly, lazily guiding them back toward the food. Every other torture aside, she _loved_ tiny Orlesian cakes. “Leliana will give you all this advice for how to talk to people, but no one here could handle the real Orlais. Just be as sarcastic as possible and speak in vague metaphors. They’ll be so confused it’s the same as winning.”

“How wonderfully horrid. I wonder if we’ll stumble upon any elicit sex or terrible secrets.” Merrill giggled and took a sip of her drink. “Oh. This isn’t wine.”

“It’s not. Don’t drink the wine, trust me. —Ooh, they have the little lemon cakes.”

Briefly forgetting that she was trying to be the scary elf at this party, Eala made a beeline for the food once they were close enough, quickly finishing her drink so she could hand it off to a servant. Piling her plate with food was more complicated than usual, but nothing was going to get between her and tiny lemon petite fours.

She couldn’t eat standing up the way she normally would have, and seeing that Merrill had been sidetracked by another masked noble and was babbling on about wind in trees on a sunny day, Eala felt comfortable retreating to the tables near the edge of the room that were specifically for eating and observing the crowd.

Surprisingly, she found Fenris sitting at one. Hawke was nearby, dressed in a very Ferelden suit and regaling another masked guest with a story in his booming, friendly voice. She sat across from Fenris, setting down her plate and pushing it a little closer to him when she saw he had none.

“Do you want to try one of these? Orlais is terrible, but they hire good bakers.”

“No,” Fenris replied, never taking his eyes off of Hawke. “I do not.”

“Suit yourself. Offer’s on the table.” With a shrug, Eala took one of the cakes and bit it in half, savoring it. “I’m surprised you and Hawke are here.”

“The Comtesse was present when Hawke dueled the Qunari Arishok some years ago. Many of the nobles here would invite Hawke to anything to avoid looking ungrateful.” Fenris took a drink from his goblet and made a face. “Hawke accepts when he’s bored. They’re very reluctant to openly disapprove of him, so… he does that.” He motioned in Hawke’s direction. The noble’s face was covered by a mask, but his body language was clear: _Maker, stop being so Ferelden_. “At least he didn’t bring his dog this time.”

“Wish he had.”

“I don’t. He has a new one that isn’t house trained yet.”

Eala snorted and popped the other half of the cake into her mouth. “I should have brought a dog to court last time I was in Val Royeaux. I would have been more interesting.”

Fenris just answered with a grunt. He nursed his drink until a servant came by to offer them new ones, though when he requested wine instead of whatever it was in his goblet, the other elf casually refused, as per “the Comtesse’s orders”. He grimaced, but decided to slump down irritably.

“Can’t stand a party without a drink?” Eala said, trying to be personable. “I know the feeling. It’s probably not very good, anyway; I heard the Comtesse is reluctant to serve it to the guests she actually _likes_ , let alone elves. But if she won’t give it to us, it seems exclusive and special.”

“Even the Kirkwall nobles aren’t usually so open with that sort of sentiment,” Fenris replied dryly. “I will just have to endure this sober.”

“We can go out for a proper drink later? You and me, Hawke and Merrill. I can treat at the Hanged Man, we can even get—”

“Stop. We aren’t friends.”

It stung enough to surprise her. They’d never spoke at length before, and now that she thought about it, she and Fenris couldn’t have been more different. Still…

“I’m just trying to be friendly,” she protested. “You and Hawke are setting out on something at my request. I’d like to be friends with anyone I’m asking that much from.”

Fenris grunted and shook his head. And then, worst of all, he decided not to give her an answer, pushing himself out of his seat so he could join Hawke on the floor. It left Eala to sadly prod at another cake, unsure if she felt like eating.

As the crowd grew and the party picked up energy, Eala couldn’t bring herself to look for an entrance to rejoin it. Merrill was out there somewhere, likely confusing anyone in earshot, but Eala lost track of her in the shuffle. The idea of going out and socializing for her own sake — not for the Inquisition, not on behalf of anyone but herself — was exhausting. These things had felt different when they’d had a bigger purpose, and now she couldn’t convince herself that making people like her was worth it. The hideous face paint they were all wearing this season was an extra reason to stay away, taunting her with familiarity that they could never truly provide.

“Are those the lemon cakes? They’re all gone at the tables.” Eala was shaken out of her brooding by Merrill leaning over her shoulder. “Are you going to eat that?”

“No, you can have them.” She smiled and tried not to move her head too much, all the better not to jam Merrill in the face with an antler. “How’s the party?”

Merrill stole the entire plate, settling at Eala’s side while she ate the little cakes whole. “I don’t know. I can’t tell if they’re delighted or offended by me, by the time I walked away they seemed flustered and kind of sweaty. Is that the same thing at a party like this?”

“More or less. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Leaning away a little bit to be sure that the antlers didn’t scrape, Eala looked up at her, resisting the urge to rest her head against Merrill’s side. “Fenris and I are not friends, I’ve been told.”

Surprisingly, Merrill just laughed. “Oh, that’s not a surprise. Fenris is cranky with everyone. You can’t take it personally. You’re very likable, you know.”

“Am I?”

“I like you.” Merrill shrugged, as if that was all that mattered. “Are you hungry? I can get you more food. That table is like a bee’s nest, I know it may be difficult with only one hand.”

Eala was fascinated by the underside of Merrill’s chin. It wasn’t the most interesting part of her body, and when Merrill was looking down at her, she could barely see it. It was the perspective. It was the view one would have looking up from their knees or from some comfortable, intimate position sitting or laying down. There was a little scar there that looked like an old, old burn, and in that second Eala was infatuated with that little scar.

“I recognize this song,” Eala replied. “Would you like to dance instead? It would be a shame to tolerate this whole mess if we didn’t get in a dance.”

“A dance?” Even behind her mask, her surprise was evident. “I don’t know any of the steps. I’d hate to trample all over your feet.”

“You can just follow my lead.” Pushing up out of the chair, Eala plucked the plate out of Merrill’s hands and set it aside before leading her to the ballroom. “They tell you it’s more complicated than it is, but it’s not…”

The ballroom was nearly empty. It was early enough in the night that it should have been full of men vying for the attention of women who had come out to the dance floor to show off their latest fashions. Now the band was playing for almost no one, save for a couple who was stubbornly continuing to follow the steps as if there were a dozen other people to move around.

“Well this is…” Merrill paused, trying to find a nice word. “Sparse?”

“Dreary?”

“Unusual?”

“ _Bizarre_.”

“Lady Lavellan.” Their volley was interrupted by a servant, offering yet another tray with a plate of food and another wine goblet resting on it. Eala noted that it was the same serving girl who had brought her every drink she’d had tonight, as well as Fenris’s. She was on the shorter side, her chin slender and sharp underneath her simple mask that had been fashioned to look like a bird, short little wings framing her face. She wobbled a little in her short heels, but her hands on the tray were steady. “I thought you might be hungry,” she added, her voice weighed down under a brogue that couldn’t have been native to Kirkwall. “But if the hors d’oeuvres aren’t to your liking, there may be something else on my tray that will interest you.”

Eala glanced over the plate (full to the edges with elaborately decorated little cakes) and nearly took it, until she noticed the edge of a little piece of paper underneath the porcelain. She carefully set the plate far enough back that she could take it and tuck it into the front of her clothes without being noticed. “Thank you. I’m afraid I’m full.”

The servant nodded, not bothering to attempt a curtsy, and left with the inconsistent clicking of her heels on the floor. Once she was out of sight, Eala and Merrill slipped away from the party, letting themselves into a little storage room. As Eala tugged the note back out and shook it open, Merrill lit a lamp with a wave of her hand.

“I missed secret notes and intrigue,” she said, sidling up to Eala to read over her shoulder. “Life’s been much more boring since Hawke stopped dragging us all around. What’s it say?”

“It says I’m to meet someone down in the kitchens, and that the servant who gave this to me will lead me down there, if I meet her out in the hallway.” Eala frowned and turned the note over. The back was bare. “It’s not signed, and this isn’t Sera’s handwriting. I expected this to be from Friends.”

“Maybe someone fancies you. Or it’s a trap.” Merrill said it as if both were equally possible.

“Probably a trap. I should check it out anyway,” she said. “If I’m not back in an hour, come find me?”

Merrill’s mouth turned down, and her brows were probably knitted under her mask. “Are you sure you want to go alone? You shouldn’t.”

“I’ll be fine. I need you to cover for me at the party, just in case. Please?”

Merrill nodded reluctantly before snuffing out the light. Taking the note for herself just in case, she led the way out of the storage room.

Back in the ballroom, the couple that was dancing had stopped. The man was sitting while he and his partner were desperately trying to fan him; he was sweating profusely and looked almost green, the painted vallaslin on his chin and neck melting off of his skin and staining the front of his expensive suit.

“ _That_ was Friends,” Eala said quietly, gesturing over to the couple as the man picked himself up and dashed off, his partner following behind him in her unreasonably high heels. “They spiked the casks. Whatever’s in it is pretty harmless in the long run, but it’ll make you sick first. Very sweaty.”

“I bet if we checked the bathrooms, the lines would be out the door.” Merrill covered her mouth to cover a little bit of a laugh. “That’s _terrible_. All those expensive gowns and doublets, _ruined_ by all that paint. All those poor people. And I suppose being sick is no fun, either.”

“Wonder if it’ll impact the fashion trends.” Eala touched Merrill’s shoulder. “I’ll be back. And I’ll stay safe. Or try to.”

“Try hard. I’ll go find Hawke.”

Leaving Merrill, Eala slipped away again, following the instructions on the note: _Left out of the east side of the ballroom, down the hall, last right and then down the stairs_. Sure enough, there was the elven servant, gesturing as soon as Eala was close enough. “This way, Lady Lavellan.”

“Wait.” But by then, the elf had disappeared through a doorway, forcing Eala to follow her to catch up. “ _Wait_.”

“We’re already late,” she said over her shoulder, staying far enough ahead to be out of arm’s reach. When Eala picked up speed, so did the elf, taking sharp turns through the servants’ passages in the mansion that were meant to help them stay out of sight of anyone important. At least once, Eala was sure that they got turned around, repeating a passage or two before letting out into a hallway that smelled strongly of baking bread.

“Here—” But she was cut off when Eala finally caught up, grabbing the elf by the front and shoving her up against the wall with a _thud_. Immediately she raised her hands, ready to cover her face.

“ _Who_ are you? You’re not a Friend, so if you don’t tell me what the hell you’re doing, we’re going to have a real problem.” Eala was so close she could feel the elf’s uncomfortable breath against her cheeks.

“I was doing what I was told to,” said the elf.

“By who? The Comtesse.” The elf shook her head. “Not the Comtesse. Not Friends. Then who? Don’t make me guess again.”

“Sister Leliana! She set up a meeting for you, very important, it’s through that door.” She gestured toward the nearby door, but Eala refused to look away to see.

“I don’t believe you,” Eala snapped. “I don’t know you. Leliana wouldn’t use somebody I don’t know.” She wouldn’t have done that because…

Eala’s mouth tightened into a line.

“Fen’Harel ma ghilana,” she spat. “Where’s your vallaslin, _lethallin_? I know your accent, and you’re awkward in shoes. Did he take it? Did you offer to spy for him?” When Eala didn’t get an answer, she shoved the elf again, knocking her head against the wall. “Say something useful, or I swear—”

“I was just to watch you,” the elf blurted out, shaking against Eala’s hand. “I intercepted one of Sister Leliana’s spies. The message was hers, I just delivered it. I guess that’s why you were invited to the party, but I thought you _knew_. You weren’t supposed to talk to me, and then I was late and—”

“Why so afraid, sister?” Eala cocked her head to the side, nostrils flaring. “You’re talking fast, and loud. What has the Dread Wolf told you about me?”

“He has… —I’m not supposed to tell you that, but it’s not…” The elf squirmed, her hand twitching like she wanted to try to push Eala’s arm away but was afraid to try. “I meant you no harm. _He_ means you no harm, not that I know of.”

Eala studied the girl’s face for a few long, agonizing moments, trying to pick out thoughts to voice. It was the first real contact she’d had with one of Solas’s spies since the Crossroads, and it was difficult not to drag this girl back home by her hair, or hurt her more than she deserved. Eventually, she said:

“Listen to me. I’m going to let you go.” Eala tried to be gentler, but almost entirely failed. “Tell your leader I want to see him. In person. He’ll know how to find me. He won’t want to, because he’s a coward, but tell him I mean him no harm. And tell him…” She took in a deep breath. “Tell him I still have the jawbone. He’ll know what that is. And tell him I’ll come alone, and I expect him to be as well. Do you understand that? Nod.”

The elf nodded, and finally exhaled when Eala let her go. “I understand. Meet him, alone, jawbone.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight.” When the girl ran off, Eala turned away and shook her head, bringing up a hand to squeeze the bridge of her nose before remembering she was wearing a mask. Solas would probably ignore her. He’d ignored her for years before, when he knew she would welcome him back. Why would he come now?

A woman’s voice broke into her private moment, coming from the door behind her.

“Well, _that_ was very impressive.”


	4. What Are You Wearing? Part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for shameless bisexuality and hurting your feelings. (The second is unrelated to the first.)
> 
> I am so, so sorry this took so long. I had over half of it finished for months, and RL happened. But it's here! I did it!

The Hero of Ferelden had eyes that were such a shade of amber that they looked gold, and they were all Eala could see for the first few seconds of looking at her, frozen in place like a startled halla. 

She was taller than Eala had expected. Her cheekbones were sharper, her forehead was wider, and her hair was grayer, streaking the dark orange that she’d pulled back into a tight braid. Her upper lip was fuller than her lower lip, and she had a little bit of an overbite, just enough to be attractive. The leathers she wore underneath her cloak were simple and brown, but Eala’s eyes were drawn to the griffin crest on her hip, her gaze lingering over the length of her body.

The Warden’s portraits really didn’t do her justice.

Eala meant to say something that sounded important, but what came out was: “Shit.”

The Hero readjusted her left glove and smirked, just a little. “Leliana didn’t tell you I was coming.” Not a question. “Come inside, and lock the door. We need to talk.”

“Okay,” Eala said stupidly, watching the Hero walk back through the doorway that the elven servant had tried to point out to her. She followed and tried to shake off the stunned stupor. Eala was _just as important_ as the Hero of Ferelden. She’d saved the world. The Inquisition had more power in its heyday.

But, Creators, she didn’t have half as much presence. Standing a few feet away from this woman put a tremor in her belly, something between self-consciousness and awe that could be easily mistaken for arousal. Eala had met world leaders who didn’t feel as important as this Grey Warden seemed just by looking at her.

There was no reason to let her know that. Eala steeled herself and walked through the door, locking it behind her. It felt like locking a cage.

The Warden had made herself reasonably comfortable, working her way through a plate of bread and cheese. When she sat, she motioned toward the seat across from her, settling back down while Eala followed her suggestion. “I’d offer to share, but I’m sure it’s a step down from what they’re serving at the party.”

“I don’t have an appetite, but thanks anyway.” Finally, Eala was grateful to be wearing a mask. Sitting across from this woman, she’d broken out into a nervous sweat. Eala had chosen to give up her rank for personal reasons, but by the time she’d done it, people had already been chipping away at the Inquisition’s reputation. The Hero of Ferelden was a Warden-Commander and a _Queen_ , and Eala hadn’t met a single person who’d spoken ill of her. She hadn’t gotten to the end of her mission and crumbled. She wasn’t living out of some mansion in Kirkwall, replacing carpets stained by corpses and hating herself. “Leliana must have sent me here for _this_. She probably didn’t want me to give you away.”

“Such loyalty from your spymaster,” the Warden said mildly, breaking off a piece of crust. “You’re late, so I should be brief. Your plan is bad.”

Eala flinched like she’d been smacked. “Excuse me?”

“Your rebellion. Wonderful idea that I support, but right now, it will fail.” The Warden popped the bread into her mouth and spoke while she chewed, keeping most of it in her cheek. “Par Vollen and Tevinter are at war, more now than in a century. If you knock the legs out of Tevinter’s political structure, they’ll be left vulnerable to the Qunari. They can’t afford any weakness now if they hope to survive with their minds in tact.”

Eala knew she was blushing, embarrassed, and scowled to distract from it. “So you want me to hold off _freeing slaves_ so Tevinter can win their senseless war against the Qunari? Did you come all this way to tell me this? Letters are a thing.”

The Warden snorted, having since swallowed her food. “No, of course not. I’m on my way home from Par Vollen. I had a meeting with the Arishok; it’s a testament to our friendship that he told me as much as he did, but I’m afraid the benefits of that are wearing thin. The only promise I have is that they may, _possibly_ , come for Ferelden last. It’s not his decision.”

“Please don’t try to tell me the Arishok is just a slave to duty or some bullshit like that.”

“Not at all. He’s just not in charge — and even if he was, he’s more loyal to the Qun than he is to me. He’d still be planning this invasion.”

“So…” Eala wanted to rub her eyes, but settled for pushing at her mask instead. “I still don’t understand why you went to this trouble to speak to me in person. You’re clearly in contact with Leliana.”

“When I ask for a favor, I like to do it in person.” The Warden sat up, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her right leg over her left. She rested her hands in her lap, draped over her thigh. “I’ve called a Landsmeet in Denerim, and I would like you present to help me convince them to ally with Tevinter against the Qunari. Tevinter may put up a good fight, but they _will_ lose unless we help them. They’re all that’s been keeping the Qunari at bay these last centuries, and only then because the Qunari never decided to win. The Inquisition may have disbanded, but you’re still the Inquisitor.”

She thought of Dorian, that his support could hurt or help in what the Warden wanted — and then she thought of Krem and Fenris, people damaged and battered by Tevinter at the bottom of its boot. On a good day, the idea of _helping_ Tevinter was stomach churning, an endeavor only for the emotionally invested. Eala was impassive and thoughtful, before cautiously venturing, “What do I get out of this? You’re the Hero of Ferelden. They’ll rally to you even if I say no.”

“I want you as our ambassador to Tevinter, which would no doubt help you acquire a foothold there to plant the seeds of the revolution you want. This decision will mean another Exalted Council; we’ll be better with Orlais at our side, and you have the ear of the Divine. Orlais may not unite behind me as readily as it will behind you, given purpose.” The Warden laid her handkerchief out onto the table and piled her uneaten food onto it, before rolling it up and stashing it all into her cloak. “I’ll give you time to think. I should be going. No rest for the wicked, after all.”

Having said her piece, the Warden picked herself up. She briefly readjusted her clothes and was heading for the door when Eala, who had hardly moved, said, “I want resources. Leliana’s told you about Solas, I can tell that much. I need spies. Money. Ears to the ground. And I want your promise that Ferelden will help me in my campaign in Tevinter, if it’s able after fighting the Qunari.”

“You have my word that I will try,” the Warden answered, so quick but so confident. “Nothing would please me more than continuing Andraste’s Exalted March against Tevinter and rid it of its depravity. Convincing the Landsmeet to do the same should not be difficult.”

“Good. I may see you in Denerim.”

Eala wasn’t watching as the Warden left, but she could swear the door felt heavier when it closed. She had made plans with such grand statements, and it had taken someone smarter thirty seconds to knock the legs out from under it. How could she have overlooked the Qunari?

Was her focus on Solas so blinding that she’d stopped paying attention? Were her moral desires for an uprising for her own people, or her own selfishness?

It wasn’t something to contemplate in the Comtesse’s basement, that was for sure. She gave the Warden a decent head start before leaving the little room and realizing she… actually had no idea where she was. (Goddamn Orlesian fetishists with their overly complicated houses and their stupid noses stuck up in the air.) Eala was forced to wander, walking for far too long before she found a set of stairs that seemed as if it might bring her back to where she wanted to be.

She ended up in a library, hearing chatter from down the hallway where people were lamenting over the wait for the bathrooms. Her sick satisfaction that they were more miserable than she was _did_ help, enough that she slowed herself down and curiously picked at one of the books. The very surface was dusted, but the volume groaned when it was opened, the spine creaking from disuse. It turned out to be a record of Ferelden succession lines. It must have last been touched when the Warden’s young nephew was added to her family tree some five years ago.

Eala returned the book, already bored.

Wandering away from the noise of the crowd, Eala took a left, then a right toward what she thought might have been the ballroom and was pleasantly surprised to find Merrill peering around another corner and muttering to herself.

“If I were a lost Inquisitor, where would I be? Maybe in a closet? —Now why would I be in a closet? There’s nothing in a—”

“I’m not in a closet,” Eala said, coming up behind Merrill and smiling when the other elf jumped a little. 

“Oh! _There_ you are, thank the Creators. There is _no one_ left at the party except Hawke and Fenris. It’s very awkward dancing alone, you know. What was the important secret message about? Was it interesting? Scandalous? Did you have to shank anyone?” Merrill mimed stabbing just to make her point.

“I wish. It was…” Eala frowned, and fidgeted. “Let’s get out of here first. The walls have ears.”

 

Halfway home, Eala stripped off her shoes, carrying them in one hand and gesturing with them her encounter with the Warden. She’d meant to be general just so Merrill didn’t feel as if Eala had dragged her to this party and wouldn’t tell her anything, but…

“Creators, I felt like a child. She just tore right through my ideas, and she was so… so competent. I bet you could hit her with a hammer and she wouldn’t break.”

“That seems a bit much,” Merrill said sympathetically. “She’d at least flinch. Most people don’t like being hit with hammers.”

“Maybe if you caught her on a bad day.” Eala gestured again, nearly flinging her shoes into someone’s garden. “I know I’ll do what she wants, but I want to at least pretend to think about it.” She sighed as her own mansion came into view, her footsteps slowing to a reluctant trudge. Being outside was nicer, the slight chill of autumn offset by the salty ocean humidity, feeling the dirt and stone against the soles of her feet. “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I know it was unpleasant.”

“It wasn’t all that bad. I had fun. I guess it could’ve been longer, but everyone was so quick to leave…” Her feigned naivete disappeared in favor of a little smile, glancing over at Eala in a way that made the other elf’s stomach flip. Merrill was still wearing her mask, but the brightness of her eyes and the curve of her mouth were more than enough. “If you have to go to another party, I’d like to be your date again.”

“I wouldn’t want to go with anyone else.” Sidling up to the door, Eala added, “You really should keep the dress. I mean it, it looks good on you. I’ll probably never wear it.”

“If you’re _really_ sure—”

“I really am.”

“Then I’ll treasure it.” Merrill smiled underneath her mask, and when her cheeks pushed against the edges of it, she seemed to remember it was there and reach back to untie it. “You’ll probably want this mask back, though, Leliana will be furious if you just give it away.” 

“She probably would—hang on.” Eala fidgeted, trying to figure out how to carry the mask with her hand full, and decided to drop her shoes and shove her feet back into them. “Are you sure you want to drop me off? I can walk you back to the Alienage, or you can stay with me tonight. It can’t be a safe walk at night.”

“I’ve done it dozens of times, don’t you worry.” Free of the mask, Merrill shook her hair, leaving it fluffed out. There were shallow impressions on her face where the mask had rested. After a thought, she tied the ribbons back together when Eala offered out her hand, hanging it off her wrist to leave her grip free. “I’ll be—”

She was cut off by an impulsive kiss, with Eala remembering at the last second to angle her head so she wouldn’t smash the nose of her mask into Merrill’s mouth. Merrill smiled against Eala’s lips, reaching up for her while she kissed back and resting her long fingers on her lapel.

Eala was content to stay there as long as she could, pulling back only because she had to breathe — but when she opened her eyes, she recoiled, reflexively covering her mouth. The red paint of her false vallaslin had smeared off onto Merril’s lips and cheeks, leaving a bloody-looking mess over her dreamy expression. Pulling back her hand, Eala saw the red on her palm, having easily rubbed off onto her glove just from the short touch. She felt her heart sink into her stomach.

“I should go,” she mumbled, turning away as Merrill blinked her eyes open. “You have…” Eala gestured to her own mouth. “On your face. I’m sorry, I’ll talk to you another day, thank you for coming with me—” She cut herself off by opening her front door and ducking inside, closing the door by resting her weight against it.

She dropped the mask in her hand before tearing at the ribbon on her own, desperate to get it away from her face. The inside of it was smeared with red paint, and the sight of it made her want to vomit. It was fake. Everything about her felt fake, melting off of her, her skin and her bones were surely next. Eala dropped the mask, vaguely aware that something on it cracked when it hit the floor because she was too busy frantically rubbing the rest of the paint away from her face. When she thought most of it was gone, she bit the finger of her glove to take it off and left it on the floor.

It was hard to _breathe_. Eala tore at her clothes, clumsily undressing as she made her way to her room and leaving everything in a trail on the floor. Her coat fell the heaviest, forcing her to untangle from the way it wrapped around her stump before she dropped it, and the rest was easy until she got to her shoes. She had to stop to lean against the wall, fumbling with her toes at the back of her heels until she could forcefully kick them away and squirm out of her leggings.

When she was in nothing but the chain that held her sending crystal, Eala went into her room and dragged the door shut. She briefly considered trying to contact Dorian but decided that his advice — well-meaning, affectionate, probably _good_ advice — wouldn’t make her feel any better. Instead, she went to the box that sat by her bed and stored the pendant, switching it out for the old wolf’s jaw on the cord. Leaving home without it seemed like a terrible idea in hindsight. 

Slipping the cord around her neck, Eala crawled into her bed and burrowed into the blankets. She hated that this was her bed, that it was inside her room that was part of her _mansion_. She missed the smell of grass and the sway of an aravel rocking her to sleep during long journeys across the Free Marches, the sound of other elves talking on the other side of the canvas walls fading into white noise. Bringing the bone to her mouth, she ran her lips over it for childish comfort. She sniffled, feeling the pressure of tears against the inside of her nose but unable to do more than cry a few slow, frustrated tears until she drifted into uncomfortable, dreamless sleep.


End file.
